Sunday is Valentine's Day, which makes this the perfect time for finagling restaurant reservations and contemplating the infernal chemistry of love and romance. Like, is love even real? Do people even date anymore? And even if they do, where in St. Louis would they attempt enthusiastic public sex?
These are all important questions. Obviously, I decided to tackle the public sex one.
Previously, I explored the Valentine's Day traditions of polyamorous and kinky St. Louisans, and for this latest entry in "Valentine's Day Subjects That Hallmark Won't Touch," I reached out to readers and friends through social media. "Are you perverts screwing around in public?" I asked. In return, they sent me stories of exhibitionism that veer from clandestine humping at the symphony to awkward shags behind bushes.
Please note: These anecdotes aren't squeamishly detailed Penthouse letters, but they're certainly graphic enough that you might not want to read them around your boss.
Enough preamble. Let's get to the doin' it, starting with this submission from "Sarah."
It was a dark and stormy night. Actually, it was somewhere between 3 and 5 a.m. so technically, it was a dark and stormy morning. Neither of us were quite ready to go home and one of us had keys to a certain Midtown music venue. So we stopped off for a night cap. He insisted people do this all the time, which seemed reasonable. There wasn’t a place left unscathed by our furious makeout sessions. Then all of a sudden I found myself perched on the bar, legs spread and him exhaling between thrusts, “someone… could… just… walk… in…” which horrified me. WHY DIDN'T HE LOCK THE FUCKING DOOR BEHIND US?! But no one walked in.
From that point on, it became somewhat of a game. When the two of us found ourselves at the aforementioned venue, we got down to it in and against just about every imaginable spot.
But was Sarah satisfied with defiling just one St. Louis music venues? Nope.
On occasion I’d let myself a different music venue I’d acquired keys to, this one in the heart of the Grove. One (and only one) time though, I brought a friend back with me. We both passed out as soon as we hit the couch. Later that morning, when the restaurant the venue shared a wall (and door) with was in full swing, we decided, why not? We started to fool around and perhaps a full two minutes in I heard keys in the front door. It was beer delivery day. So we quieted. Someone walked in, then another and then the delivery came in. All the while, we proceeded.
The green room was upstairs and there’d be no reason for anyone to come up here… or at least that’s what I was telling myself. So still, we continued until the beer was put away or at least stacked in a corner, the party of three left and one of us came. Overhearing a casual conversation mid-coitus was strangely erotic.
Then it was pants up, shirt on and out the door. On the walk back to the car, though, I passed the co-worker who’d just taken the beer order. “What are you doing over here so early?” He asked. I think one of us said, “brunch.”
Sarah, a born raconteur, titled her final story "The TAIL of Talayna's."
I lived with three very adventurous and occasionally promiscuous women, so stories of conquests were somewhat of a weekly ritual. The one that took the cake, by far and away, was that of a lightpole on the walk back to the car from Talayna’s. Which pretty much sums it up.
My bestie couldn’t wait to get Mr. Saturday Night home, so right there, in someone’s front yard just after last call at Talayna’s, she hiked up her skirt, bent herself over and wrapped her arms around a light pole for support. And I think he might have even used her coattails to “hold on.” The same way a cowboy holds the reins of a horse, but I could be getting my outdoor, telephone pole sex stories confused.
For more shameless debauchery, click through to the next page.